Constante
by narcolepticbadger
Summary: Côtard makes his study of Bush and (reluctantly) rather likes what he finds.


For all that there was very little mystery about the man, Monsieur Bush was well worth making a study of, Côtard found.

Not that he had much choice in the matter.

Their shared quarters (an insult to the word, if ever there was one) meant he saw Bush coming and going at all hours: the unguarded stripping off of uniform when he came in from watch, the fixing of his queue before stepping out again, a murmured apology for the lamp-light if their eyes happened to catch when Côtard glaringly punched his pillow down and buried his face back into it, and damn the man if he didn't have a voice that carried even at a whisper.

They hit a spate of storms near Brest, and Côtard could not seem to escape from the ship's pitching – on foot or in hammock, it made no difference – or the inevitable seep of water into his clothes, though he rarely braved the deck himself on those days. For lack of better entertainment, he played at gauging the ferocity of the storm by whether Bush wore his (most ridiculous) rain bonnet, or by how much water streamed from his shoulders when he removed his greatcoat and stood dripping, seemingly half-drowned, in their cabin.

Bush was strong-built but small – one of those born to move within the confines of a ship, and Côtard resented him a bit more each time he had to pause and tuck his own head to pass through a doorway – and bedraggled by the rain he seemed even smaller, softer, than was proper.

Still, weary as Bush must have been, he found it in him to glower most impressively when Côtard rolled over and started to hum, then sing, " _À la claire fontaine…j'ai trouvé l'eau si belle que je m'y suis baigné_ ," just as Côtard had imagined he would.

A better man wouldn't tease him so, would leave him to whatever rest he could find in the grips of a shivering so severe it broke through the steadiness of his breathing, but Côtard was not that man, and he had not yet given up count of all the ways Monsieur Bush had endeavored to rob _him_ of sleep.

He watched the fitful rise and fall of the lieutenant's chest (both of them frowning) gradually even out, and it was only to be expected. Bush was not one to let worry or discomfort or cycling thoughts – such human _accoutrements_ – trouble his slumber.

(Côtard, left to solitude again, tried not to be disappointed.)

Bush mistrusted him, naturally, and kept his distance as best he could in all things – thwarted, at least, by their enforced proximity, and Côtard determined to wear down those other distances as well.

He could not resist drawing out the vowel of Bush's name more than what was strictly necessary just to watch for the play of muscles in his jaw, something more than dislike back-bit in the presence of his captain, and Côtard could guess at the man's thoughts well enough.

He could not resist standing too-close, and speaking his own tongue at every opportunity, knowing the man had no hope of understanding his insinuations, and this was how he survived the interminable voyage: amusing himself, and if Bush thought ill of him, so be it.

(It was not _pleasure_ , warm in his chest, the idea that a man like Bush should think of him at all gave him – no, it was not that, no.)

Deep-bellowing, artless, English to the blood and bone. _Constante_ , Côtard might call him, this man so predictable in his tempers and firm in his loyalties and easy to pin down.

A simple man, this Bush.

Until, not-at-all suddenly, he wasn't.

They were taken captive, he with Hornblower and the other men, and their company was not intolerable, as much as anything in prison could be, but Côtard was restless in a way that could not be wholly explained by the irons that locked them all into place.

He thought of (did not miss) the sway of twin hammocks in his berth on ship, and the weathering around Bush's eyes that grew under lamp-light, and both of them cursing the other's presence below their breaths, half-meant.

It had always promised to be temporary, this alliance – this arrangement – but he had never intended for _this_ to be their end.

…

Later, there was a beach, and death coming surely, and more than that he could not say.

His senses were somewhat distracted by the pain of his wounded arm until cannon fire and a shout of _Hotspurs, with me!_ cleaved them straight through, and Côtard thought that there was no other voice he'd rather hear in that moment, thought again what a shame it was that Monsieur Bush insisted upon English when it had so little music of its own.

He came running out of the sea, backed by a battalion of marines Côtard would spare no eye for, and, once more, the water made Bush seem _petit_ , surrounded as he was by the charge, by waves that splashed up against his knees.

(It was strange, the things his mind noticed at times like this.)

Everyone fell to battle, clanging steel and smoke, and Côtard was tired, never remembered how or when he was grounded, but he had wits enough left to shoot at the right colors, aimed to kill and didn't miss, and the man testing Bush's strength dropped where he stood.

The look of astonishment (and, perhaps, concern) he won was worth it, and when Bush offered his own pistol, spoke a quiet _for France, sir_ that nevertheless drowned out all other sounds of the fighting before diving back into the fray – no patience for sentimentality, then – Côtard wondered if they had understood each other at last.

…

He lost days to recovery, to the haze of laudanum and catching up on all the sleep he was owed, and when he was finally cognizant of returning to his berth and seeing Bush again, he was ready with a bottle of rum and two tin cups lifted from the surgery.

It had been raining, a bad night of it if the reawakened throb of his arm was any indication, and he was still trying to find a seated position that didn't hurt when Bush pushed through the door, soaked through and spilling water over the floorboards and plainly miserable under his sodden hat.

He stopped short at the sight of Côtard, clearly taken aback, before he realized his rudeness and carefully recomposed his features into something gentler.

"I see you did not expect me, Monsieur Bush. I hope ze _intrusion_ is not so unwelcome?"

Côtard made to stand, to excuse himself if necessary, but Bush promptly shook his head and waved him back, turning to relieve himself of greatcoat and frock coat so that Côtard had no view of his face when he said, with every sincerity, "Glad to see you returned to us, Major."

Rain was still tracking down his forehead when he turned again, one drop cutting a path to the line of his mouth before Bush wiped it away with a sleeve, and they were at _impasse_ once more, a watchful eye kept on the bare distance between them.

"A drink _avec moi_ , Monsieur Bush? You look to have need of somezing warm."

He indicated the bottle set before him, the two cups, and Bush met his gaze baldly before looking to the door.

Côtard fully expected him to make his apologies and withdraw, was already pouring himself an extra finger's worth of rum to wash down the bitterness of defeat, when Bush cleared his throat and took a half-step closer.

"I…yes, all right. Thank you, Major."

He poured the second cup, their hands brushing in the exchange, and (the details newly sharp, now that he could look at them like this) fine hands they were, Monsieur Bush's, capable and art _ful_ and more elegant than he would have guessed of any seaman.

Chilled, too, and Côtard could chase some heat back into them. He _would_.

And he was staring.

Cursing himself inwardly, he lifted his drink to cover his lapse in attention, hoping that Bush had not noticed anything amiss.

" _À la tienne_."

Bush – who understood nothing of French, who ground his teeth at every accented drawl of his name – nodded in reply without a shred of hesitation and mirrored Côtard's movements as they toasted. He was quiet-eyed, sure as always, and a rare, open smile began to play over his mouth in the moment he raised his cup to his lips.

For the first time they fell into conversation properly, and Bush proved that he could keep a civil tongue, and more besides, and Côtard found himself drinking in the expressive range of those eyes, those hands, those lips, more than his rum.

The man might just surprise him yet.


End file.
